One freakishly large, one normal, and one small hernia.  They were all repaired at once.  I knew there were going to be consequences.  But I lack the capacity to describe my situation.

I'm going to tell my son to do two things:  Learn to be a proficient dancer and try to understand poetry.  These were really the only two social liabilities I had in my life.  They've both cost me too. 

I'm all about handling willing women.  I'm not above doing it in public.  Dancing is a socially legitimate reason to handle a woman in public.  Philosophically, I should be all over this one.  But, as it turns out, I never really learned how.  What's worse, I was never motivated to go dancing.  The music involved didn't make me feel festive or sexy either.

I dance at Red Rooster now.  It's easy.  You can basically molest whomever you happen to be dancing with.  It's not uncommon to see actual penetration or casual fellatio on the dance floor there.  I'm a terrible dancer, but as it turns out, I'm a natural for "molester to music."  This is all done by, for, and with the willing of course.

I've also never gotten proficient with an appreciation for poetry.  I've been moved by the occasional poem, but I mostly just don't fucking get it.  I don't think it's a macho thing.  I'll eat quiche.  I'll wear pink.  I'll kiss somebody on the lips after I've recently come in their mouth.  Poetry... I just don't fucking get it.

Now, I wish I was a poet.  As I sit, contemplating my nut sack, I lack the capacity to properly describe it..  I'm up before 5 am, chewing up pain meds.  The horrible tylenol flavor is just a promise that the narcotic will kick in that much faster.  My incisions?  They're fucking fine.  As long as I don't press right on them, they're no problem.  When I tense up my abdominals, one side pinches a bit.  What is giving me trouble is my scrotum.

It's not really a scrotum any more.  It's taken on an unfamiliar character.  Calling it "scrotum" is like calling a locust a grasshopper.  Sure, it used to be a grasshopper.  Now it's something different.  It's something less benign.  Something... Evil.

I'm trying to put it to sleep with an ice pack.  I know it seems counter-intuitive:  Putting your deranged scrotum to sleep with ice.  It seems to be working though.

Somebody who's really been there for me through all of this is my cock.  My cock is right next to all this ruin and has hung in there like a champ.  My ballsack is actually growing up around it.  It's kind of consuming my cock with its girth.  My cock has just sat there, stoically, giving me a silent thumbs up.  "Just me and you, buddy."  We've been through a lot, my cock and I. 

This morning, there's a large blood blister on the side of my cock.  It's pretty big.  You can push the swelling around with your finger.  Now my cock just kind of hangs there.  It's succumbed to the unclean process that my balls started.  "Sorry, man, the ballsack was just too freaky."  My once proud and unflappable cock has a huge, puffy, blood filled blister on its side.

My damn locust scrotum is winning.  You know how your strotum skin can thicken up?  My seems extra thick.  First of all, my scrotum is literally stretched tight.  The band of skin in the center of your scrotum... The line of your bilateral scrotal symmetry...  Mine hurts now.  It hurts because it's stretched out.  So you'd think this'd make your scrotum extra thin... being stretched out.  This is not the case.

My ballsack is jet black, painful, and could be as thick as rhino skin.  It is black, but like a black opal, if you stare at it long enough, a variety of greens, blues, and purples become evident.  My wife has commented that my ballsack is the same size and firmness of one of her fantastic tits.  It's true.  My wife is on the top end of a C cup.  She has fantastic, firm boobs.  So imagine handling a black, wrinkly scrotum of a C cup tit that's a little hairy and has a blood blistered penis attached to it.

Welcome to my world.